Carved in Bone by Bill Bass, Jon Jefferson Read Free Book Online

of it.
    As the dust settled and the hearing ended, I walked over to Roper, sitting glumly at his table. “Bob, I hope there’s no hard feelings. You do know I feel bad about this?”
    He looked up, his eyes weary. “Yeah, me too. I like it a lot better when you’re sitting over here on my side.”
    “So do I.” I offered my hand, and we shook like good Southern gentlemen. I made to pull away, but he tightened his grip.
    “Bill? I’m…I’m real sorry, Bill.”
    I gave him a smile I hoped was reassuring. “It’s okay. You’re just doing your job the best way you know how.”
    He squeezed again. “I…meant about Kathleen. I should have said something a lot sooner, but I just didn’t know what to say. I’m so, so sorry.”
    I tried to speak but found I could not. I looked away, extricated my hand, and fled.

CHAPTER 7
    AN HOUR AFTER THE walnut-paneled door of the Knox County Criminal Court closed behind me, the stainless-steel door of the cooler at the Regional Forensic Center opened before me. The room was as familiar to me as my own kitchen, and I felt just as much at home here. No: I felt more at home here, I realized, remembering the hours of pacing I’d done last night, trying to escape the painful loss of Kathleen. Here, at least, I was in control; here, death was always close at hand but never close to home; here, only anonymous strangers stared at me with lifeless eyes.
    I extricated the gurney that held the body of my cavewoman, as I’d begun to think of her, and wheeled it down the hall to the decomp room. Parallel-parking it against the wall, I butted one end against the side of a big stainless-steel sink and latched the cart into place with a pair of large metal hooks that clipped onto brackets on the face of the sink.
    At that moment Miranda—fetching in a fresh set of scrubs—walked in with a tray of instruments: scalpels, probes, scissors, tweezers, and, although I doubted we’d need it, a Stryker saw. The Stryker autopsy saw is a truly ingenious power tool: its fine-toothed oscillating blade can lop off the top of a skull in a minute flat, but if it grazes your fingertip by mistake, it delivers nothing worse than a tickle, without so much as nicking the skin. I’ve used one hundreds of times, and every time, the first thing I do is press the chittering blade to the heel of my hand, just to appreciate anew the ingenuity of the design.
    “Playing with your favorite toy, I see,” said Miranda.
    “Simple pleasures for simple minds. You ever notice how similar this blade’s motion is to an electric toothbrush?”
    “Ouch, man,” she said. “Quick way to lose some teeth.”
    “I know, you wouldn’t want to get the two confused. But I wonder which came first, the toothbrush or the saw?”
    “I think the egg came first,” she said. “Then the chicken. Then the autopsy toothbrush.”
    “Okay, I get it, you’re over it,” I said. “You got the X-rays?”
    “Across the hall in the lab. Be right back.”
    Ratcheting the zipper of the body bag down, I marveled once more at how thoroughly the flesh had been transformed into the waxen features of a mummy. In some cultures, a corpse in this condition would have been considered an “incorruptible”—a holy relic or saint, perhaps capable of working miracles. A shrine might be established, to which the sick and the maimed would flock by the thousands in hopes of being made whole again. And all because of a trick of fat, moisture, and temperature. But then again, who was I to dismiss it as a trick? Maybe it was more than that. After all, here she was, almost perfectly preserved, just waiting to be found. Waiting to be identified. Waiting patiently to tell her story and ask for justice. If it was a trick of chemistry, it was a mighty slick one.
    Normally the first step would be to remove the clothing from the body, but the garments had decayed to rotted shards enmeshed in adipocere. As the adipocere came off, so would the bits of fabric. I